


Empty your heart of its mortal dream

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Empty your heart of its mortal dream.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Our arms are waving our lips are apart;</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And if any gaze on our rushing band,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>We come between him and the deed of his hand,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>We come between him and the hope of his heart.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And where is there hope or deed as fair?</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>No hound of heaven, hell, or any other realm is going to take Dean from Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty your heart of its mortal dream

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, it really fucking was.

Nothing to distinguish day from night and they’d been trapped for the last 8 hours in this white-out blizzard on the on the ass end of December in Nowhere, Nebraska. So, yeah, it was damn dark and stormy.

Bitter cold, and the world is black and white at the same time. It creeps under Dean’s skin and aches in his bones. The worst of it, the absolute worst, is the wind. It sounds wild, it sounds like the dying of the year and long nights and the bleakness of the Nebraska prairie. Dean wavers between wanting to huddle in a corner, arms wrapped around his head, and wanting to throw open the door and letting the wind carry him up and away.

It’s eight long paces across the room in one direction, seven from the far wall to where Sam sits at the cramped table scrolling through web site after site. His legs stretched out against the bed, cheek resting against one balled fist, and Dean can feel Sam’s obsession with getting him out of his deal just radiating from him. It’s going to drive him insane if he can’t get away from Sam soon.

 _Six, seven, eight_ , Dean counts, resting his forehead against the door. The cold seeps through the thick wood and tightens the skin around his eyes. Sighing, he looks through the peephole. Nothing. Just black. Rocking his head against the door, he looks over to the window, reaching out and flicking aside the curtain. Oh, look, black and _white_ from the snow brushing and screaming across the glass. That’s different. The sigh that escapes him is epic. He lets the curtain drop.

“Usually I’m the sigher,” Sam comments, not looking up from the laptop.

“I’m starting to see the appeal.” He sighs again for emphasis. “I need to kill something. Or to drink something. We got anything?” 

“To kill? No.” Sam stretches, rubs his hands on his long, denim clad thighs, rolls his head around his neck, stretching. “Same with drinking. We drank the last beers about an hour ago. Might be some whiskey in the first aid kit?”

Dean’s jaw clenches and he flattens his hand against the cold glass. “Yeah. First aid kit’s in the car.” The screaming of the wind echoes through the room. “I ain’t that far gone yet. Think she’s okay out there?”

Sam’s eyes flick to the dark window. The parking lot lights illuminate individual snowflakes and they stream under the glare. “Yeah. Yeah, she’ll be fine. No trees, nothing to fall on her.”

Dean pulls the curtain shut. “Fucking Nebraska.” 

“Yeah.” 

Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him. He gestured at the laptop. “Anything to kill? Assuming this blizzard ever ends and I don’t have to eat you to stay alive?”

“Like you’d be able to take me,” Sam scoffs. “No. Nothing. Far as I can tell, all we’re dealing with here are Kallikantzaroi.” He slide the laptop around so Dean can see the little ugly things. Naked ugly, male things. 

“Big dicks for little fuglies.” Dean comments, getting the expected eye roll.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Hey!” Dean grabs his crotch. “I got nothing to be jealous about.” That earns him another eye roll.

“Anyway. They’re mischievous, annoying. But not deadly. And will be gone by…” Sam double checks. “Get this. Gone by January sixth. Epiphany. The twelfth day of Christmas.” 

“Awesome. So,” Dean flops down on the bed. The one, not-very-big, barely-a-queen bed. Storm had stranded a lot of motorists. They were lucky to get a room. “So…about ten days?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“And we can’t kill them?” Dean lifts his head to look at Sam, hope gleaming in his eyes.

“Well…” Sam admits reluctantly. “We _could_ , but we really don’t need to. A fire in the fireplace keeps them out.”

Dean motions to the obvious lack of fireplace in their room.

“Or you can leave a colander on the steps.” Sam finishes.

“A colander?” Dean asks, voice flat, eyebrows raised.

“You know,” Sam’s hands shape a large bowl. “It’s got holes in it, you…you drain pasta in it.”

“Pasta? You mean like spaghetti, college boy?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Dean. Don’t be an ass. I know you know what pasta is.”

“Yeah, it’s expensive spaghetti. I could get spaghetti for fifty cents a pound, feed us both for lunch and dinner. _Pasta_ cost twice that. I remember one time, Dad was gone for like two weeks longer than he’d planned. You were like…fourteen, maybe? In that school in Jersey, remember? By the beach.”

Sam nods.

“I got lucky one day at the store. All this spaghetti and sauce on the clearance rack. I bought it all. We ate spaghetti pretty much that whole two weeks.”

Sam’s mouth tightens like he’s going to hurl remembering the taste. His eyes are pinched. “Oh, god. I’d blocked that. No wonder I can’t eat anymore. Jess…” he swallows, the memory old but always painful. “Jess couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t touch it.”

Dean stretches out and smacks Sam’s knee with his socked foot. “Yeah, well, you try feeding a baby Sasquatch for two weeks on only the money you get hustling pool and then you can complain about the menu.”

Sam’s face crumples, puppy dog eyes, downturned mouth, the works.

_Oh dear god_ , Dean hadn’t meant…it was long ago, over and done with.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is strained. “You shouldn’t have had to…I mean…you were a kid…”

Dean covers his mouth with his hand and looks away, a tell he just can’t break. “Sam, just, don’t. It’s good. It was just spaghetti.”

“Yeah, well. Thanks. For feeding me.”

Sam squeezes Dean’s foot, pressing his thumb up against the arch and Dean has to hold back a moan. _Damn that feels good_. Dean looks away, hand still over his chin. “Do a lot more than that for you, Sammy.” He means it to be under his breath but given the death grip Sam now has on his foot, it probably came out a bit louder than he intended. He can’t look at Sam. Can’t. Won’t. They are not talking about this right now. Not in this…this bubble. He coughs some air into his lungs, lays back, looks up at the ceiling. Yanks his foot away. “So.” His voice is overly loud. “Klinkadinks. How does the pasta bowl stop them?”

Sam pushes the laptop away and stands. Apparently it’s his turn to pace. The room is like four paces wide for him. Or maybe it’s shrinking. Dean can’t be sure, but it feels like it might be shrinking. “It’s like rice, or salt. They have to stop and count the holes.” Dean’s face says it all. “Yeah, I know. But they can only count to two. Three’s a holy word in their language. Greek,” he expands off Dean’s questioning look.

“Whatever. So many damn rules for this stuff.” The wind howls louder, shaking the door and rattling the window pane. Dean sees Sam shudder. “You cold?”

Sam shakes his head. “Not, not really. It just…feels like I should be, y’know?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He knows. He shoves over a bit and pats the bed next to him, pulling Sam towards him with a jerk of his chin. Sam settles, shoulders brushing, knees touching because with Dean’s bowed legs they can’t help but turn out. They’re both in their softest, oldest sweatpants and t-shirts. No point in being all armored up. No way are they going out in this weather and anything that tries to come in Dean’s gonna kill on the general principle that nothing human could survive out there.

They listen to the wind howling, the windows rattling, neither one making a move to turn on the TV or the bedside radio. The room is smaller than their usual. Just the bed, a dresser, and a small table and chair about one foot from the end of the bed. The coffee maker and shoebox-sized microwave have to live in the bathroom. The dark and the snow and the desolate location somewhere off route 83 separate them from the real world. It’s like a dream, and Dean has a flash of them inside a snow globe, isolated from everything by a thin dome of clear glass.

What is up with this wind? Shrieking and howling across miles of empty prairie. Everything on this cheap-ass motel is rattling and banging and Dean worries about the roof blowing away, about his baby out there alone. His ears hurt and there’s a headache moving up from the base of his skull. Maybe it’s the pressure. Storms are low pressure, right? Maybe high pressure brains are getting ready to blow out his ears. How can Sam just sit there? He looks so relaxed. His body is soft and quiet where it’s pressed against Dean’s side. An oasis in the storm.

Sam slinks down further into pillows, slides down the bed until his head is level with Dean’s chest. It would only take a tiny shift for Dean to put his arm around Sam, pull him into his body. Sam would count Dean’s heartbeats and Dean would count Sam’s breaths until they meshed into a rhythm they would feel in their shared blood, surging up and down from their heads to their feet until they were dizzy with it. 

The blood pulses in Dean’s fingertips and he has to rub them against the slippery polyester spread. Blood tingles in his lips until his has to bite down and run his tongue over them just to feel something touching his mouth. Blood pools thick and heavy in his cock, and he suddenly remembers the last time he let Sammy lie like that. Sam’s ear pressed against Dean’s chest, his breath warm against his collarbones. Sam’s gangly, beautiful, coltish fourteen to Dean’s solidly-muscled eighteen and Dean knew then that he had to stop. 

Right now, one hundred and twenty six days away from hell, nothing to kill, nothing to drink, and the wind sparking along his entire nervous system, he just can’t seem to care. Fight, flight, feed, or fuck. One of those has to happen, and soon, or Dean is going to explode. 

Sam exhales and, somehow, without actually moving, feels closer to Dean. Sam is all muscles and skin, and heat and will, and heart and bravery, and Dean knows that his hell is being separated from Sam and that his heaven will be knowing that Sam is alive.

Sam’s breathing hitches, short inhale, longer exhale, and Dean sees his rib cage expanding as he draws another breath. He knows from decades of watching Sammy that he’s about to say something important, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. Sam rolls onto his side and Dean’s arm moves out of the way, curving up over Sam’s head, fingertips sliding through Sam’s hair. Dean is going to let Sam say what he wants, let him say anything, do anything. _Damn the torpedoes._

If only he could hear what Sammy was saying. 

Dean stares at Sam, at his earnest hazel eyes, watches his beautiful mouth move. It’s no good; the howling of the wind drowns out everything. The pressure is pushing down on his head. How can Sam even keep talking over this? Surely the room is shaking apart. Dean shakes his head. “It’s no good, Sam!” he yells over the sound. “I can’t hear you!”

The window or door must have been broken by the wind, that’s the only explanation for the sound and the growing light filling the room. Dean gets up, vaguely registering Sam saying something, pulling at his arm. The howls are louder but clearer. They really are howls. Terrible, beautiful sounds from the throats of hounds that never walked the earth. Baying and panting as they flood through the sky, and Dean can almost see them, their white fur formed from the shifting snows, eyes red as the fires of hell.

“Sam! The hounds. It’s too early! What is it?” Dean can feel the words straining at his throat but he can’t even hear himself anymore. Sam is shaking his head frantically, saying something over and over. It looks like _I don’t hear anything,_ but that can’t be right. Fighting the wind, he wrenches out of Sam’s grasp. One, two strides and he’s at the door.

The doorknob is like ice and Dean’s palm sticks to it, skin ripping from his hand as he throws the door wide and invites the storm in.

And oh. 

It’s glorious. The packs of snow-white hounds, taller than the roof of the Impala, their breath the very storm. They pant at Dean, their eyes and smiling mouths and lolling tongues beckoning him to run with them. Dean can hear the horns now, in the distance. If he strains past the orange-tinted curtains of snow, he can almost see the terrible mounts and figures wrapped in mystery on their backs. The Wild Hunt, he knows, of course he knows. And they want him. 

The wind whips everything wildly around the room. Salt, sheets, clothes, notes, and paper everywhere. Dean registers the cold somewhere deep inside his body, sets it aside. He feels Sam moving frantically behind him. He always always knows where Sam is. He’s probably yelling and cursing and talking, talking, but Dean can’t hear him, can’t deal with that now, not with what he’s hearing and seeing in his head.

A face - old, so old. Older and deeper than the petty hell of Azazel and crossroads demons. A voice from the dawn of creation, and it’s calling for him. Dean’s mind is flooded with images and he’s out of his body. Hunting across the night sky, across the universe, a huge white stag, creatures larger than a skyscraper, places deeper than the bottom of the ocean, and the wild freedom of the hunt, always the hunt. It’s an offer, hunter to hunter. A reward for his work and his sacrifice, recognition of his skill, his heart. And it can be his, he just has to say yes. To walk out and leave with them. Hell won’t be able to catch him. The red eyes of a riderless mount blaze against the black and white. A hunter has fallen. Another must take her place.

He takes a step forward, his hands clenched on the door frame, and his body strains against itself. Stretched and torn between the universe and the horns and the hounds, and something tying him to here and now and a small snow globe of a room off of Route 83 in Nowhere, Nebraska. He takes a step forward, another, until he is outside the door, hands still gripping into the doorframe, arms stretched behind him.

With everything he has in him, Dean wrenches his mind away and closes his eyes. “Sam!” he screams over the barrage of sound. 

The blast from the shotgun is the first real thing he’s heard in however long it’s been since this started. (A minute? Ten? Hours?) A second blast makes him blink, and his hands lose their death (life?) grip on the doorframe, and the swirling snow is just a blizzard, spectral hounds banished. There’s laughter in the wind now, and a sense of another offer, another time, and Dean is suddenly aware of his body. 

He’s fucking standing in his socks in a snowdrift and half-frozen.

Sam catches him just as his legs give out. He can’t even help as Sam drags him back into the room and shoves the door closed with his body. Good thing his little brother is freakishly big and strong. Sam is a furnace against him, the heat of his body almost painful, and Dean can’t stop the bone-deep shuddering. The sudden quiet echoes in his ears and he wonders if he really is deaf now between the howling and the shotgun blasts. 

He doesn’t fight as Sam pushes him into the bed,, but he can’t stop clutching Sam’s arms can’t let him go. What if they come back? What if they try to drag him away from Sam again? He can’t…he doesn’t think he could say no again.

“Sam,” he forces out. And he can hear that, his voice cracked and broken like he’s been screaming for hours. He frantically searches Sam’s face for something, eyes tracking across Sam’s eyes and mouth and down to where Dean is grabbing his arms.

“It’s okay. Dean. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He flinches as Dean’s hands tighten around his biceps. “Dean. You’re wet. Your clothes are wet, man. We got to get them off, okay?” The relief that floods Dean with the realization that he can hear, that Sam seems okay, makes the words meaningless. With the small range of movement Dean’s grip is allowing him, Sam grips at the hem of Dean’s shirt, tugging it up like Dean’s a toddler. “Off, Dean.”

Dean blinks and the world starts to seep back in. “I got it, I got it. Sam.” Sam cocks an eyebrow and tilts his chin to where Dean’s kung-fu grip is strangling Sam’s arm. Exhaling deeply, Dean lets go of his brother. Frowning, he opens and closes his hands. They hurt. His fingers hurt to open. Pins and needles of returning blood flow, splinters from the door frame, and strained muscles from being clenched for so long.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” He pulls off the wet t-shirt, slides down the sweat pants wet from ankle to knee, and peels off his sodden socks. His teeth chatter with the cold as Sam tosses him some dry clothes. They feel like heaven, and Dean pulls on the layers of socks and shirts and sweats and slides under the covers. Sam is messing around with something in the bathroom and Dean shivers and tries to figure out what the fuck just happened.

But apparently his brain is broken, because all he can think is _Sam_. Just Sam. All of him. The feel and smell and look of him. Then Sam is there for real, yesterday’s cardboard coffee cup in his hand, steam coming off of it. He holds it out, but Dean’s not sure his sore, shaking hands are up to it. He looks at the cup and back up at Sam. “I thought we were out of coffee?”

“We are. It’s hot chocolate.” 

Now that he says it, Dean can smell the warm, sweet scent. Watery packaged hot chocolate with rapidly cooling motel coffeemaker water, and it smells like heaven. He really wants it. 

“C’mon, Dean. You need it, after, after, whatever it was. Hot chocolate’s good.”

“It wasn’t a Dementor, dude.”

Sam frowns. “You said you never read those books.”

Dean looks away, “Well, yeah, there’s lot of down times when you’re hunting solo.”

Sam looks down at the cup in his hand. He shoves it at Dean again. “Drink. It’s gonna get cold.”

Dean sighs and pulls his arms out from under the blankets. “I can’t.” He holds them out, tremors obvious even in dim light of the room. He drops his head hard against the pillow. “Goddamn, I’d kill for a drink.” He hates feeling helpless, hates showing weakness. Even to Sam. Maybe especially to Sam.

Sam purses his lips, stares at where the curtains are still slightly parted. Dean can tell he’s thinking of making a run to the car for the emergency first aid stash. “Don’t even think about it.” He said he’d kill, not risk Sam’s life.

“It’s not that bad. I think the storm’s – “ He takes a step away from the bed.

“No.” Dean grabs Sam’s arm again, and he’s really gotta stop grabbing things. It hurts. “No. What if…what if they’re still out there?”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “Are you still hearing something? Do you see something?”

Dean shakes his head quickly. “No, nothing. But it’s just, better safe than sorry.”

“What…what was it? What were you hearing? First, before you got up?”

It’s inconceivable that Sam hadn’t heard the howling, a preview of the call to hell he would hear soon enough. If he tries, Dean can still kind of hear it, off in the distance. Hear the voice in his head. “It was so loud. You’re sure there’s no alcohol anywhere?” He hates how desperate he feels.

Sam sighs, then stops, holding up a finger. He puts the cup on the dresser and paws through the pockets of his backpack, emerging triumphant and holding up a small pint bottle of vodka. “Ah ha! I thought so. I got it to refill the kit.” He groans as he stands up, rubbing his back. “It’s paint thinner, but it’s 80 proof paint thinner.” He tosses the bottle at Dean, and Dean catches it. It’s not the prettiest catch but no one’s giving points for style tonight. 

The whirring of the microwave and the susurrations of the snow against the window are the only sounds, and Dean is suddenly so tired. It won’t matter if he spills some lukewarm vodka, so he risks opening it. He cracks the thin tin cap and raises it to his lips, grimacing in advance at the painful burn only really cheap alcohol can give. “God damn, that’s fucking awful.” He shudders and takes another big sip, coughing a bit.

The microwave dings, and Sam takes out the rewarmed - and now slightly soggy - cup and brings it over to Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed and shoves Dean over with his hip. Dean goes gratefully, slumping against Sam’s strong body. Sam is the only thing keeping him from keeling over, and he must be able to feel the shudders still shaking Dean’s body every few seconds. It’s not just the cold. It’s how close he came to just…leaving. To walking away. 

“Hey,” Sam nudges him, holding out the cup. The alcohol worms through Dean’s bloodstream, smoothing out the edges of panic, drawing a sheer curtain across the immediacy of his fear. He can do this. One more slug of the sterno masquerading as vodka and his hands are steady enough that he trusts them with the hot liquid. He holds out the bottle to Sam and Sam takes it, exchanging the glass bottle for the cardboard cup. They clink their drinks together out of long habit. It’s Sam’s turn to shudder at the brutal taste. Dean sighs as the hot, sugary drink slides down his throat.

They sit in silence for a while, just like they had been before all this happened. A glance at the clock shows Dean that it was maybe 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes, and his whole world is upside down. Then he remembers the feel of Sam dying in his arms, the flash of headlights and the impact of the semi, remembers Dad falling to the ground, and he realizes that in his world, fifteen minutes is a lifetime. They trade drinks back and forth, the alcohol tasting even more disgusting with the Swiss Miss, but necessary, vital. The cocoon reforms around them, though the storm is losing intensity, dropping from a whiteout blizzard to a thick, heavy snow that will blanket the earth.

Dean knows Sam must have a million questions, but he just sits against Dean, drinking quietly. When the hot chocolate is gone, Sam puts the empty cup on the nightstand and slides down the bed. This time Dean doesn’t hesitate. He rolls over and puts his arm around Sammy and pulls him into his chest. Sam’s hand goes over his heart, under the flannel, over his thin t-shirt, and he rolls his body into Dean, leg hooked over Dean’s. Dean’s hand tangles in Sam’s hair. And that’s new. But Dean can’t hold back anymore. He needs to be touching Sam, needs to have Sam touching him. He grabs Sam’s arm and lifts it off his chest. Before Sam can complain, Dean shoves Sam’s hand up under the t-shirt, bare skin to bare skin, and they both gasp at the contact. He pulls the thin scratchy bedspread and blanket up as high as he can, over Sam’s shoulders. He want to pull it up over their heads, hide them away from the world and all that is otherworldly. Everything has narrowed down to the bed. The hunt, the storm, the night, even the room, fading away.

“I almost went,” he confesses.

Sam’s fingers dig in, press into the skin like he has to hold Dean with him. Dean can’t really blame him. “I almost lost you,” Sam whispers into his shoulder. “I can’t lose you now.”

Dean drags his fingers through Sam’s hair, loving the silky feel of it. “They tried, Sammy. They tried. But I’m not ready to leave you just yet.” He tugs gently, scratching at Sam’s scalp.

Sam butts his head against Dean like a big cat, rubbing against Dean’s chin, up his jaw. “Not gonna let you go.” Dean lifts his head to give Sam better access to his neck. He feels Sammy’s lips on his skin as he talks. “What was it, Dean? I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything.”

Kisses on his neck, the tip of a tongue tracing the hinge of his jaw, and Dean doesn’t even want to pretend this isn’t happening. It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re alone in this bubble world of snow and cold, and white and dark, and elemental forces. “But you were yelling,” Sam keeps talking, mouth dragging up the column of Dean’s neck and back down to his collarbone. Sam’s hand moves restlessly under Dean’s shirt, dragging a trail of heat across the planes of his chest, tracing the outline of his muscles, back and forth. He doesn’t even try to hide the groan and the roll of his body at how amazing it feels.

“You couldn’t hear it?” Sam’s hair brushes Dean’s jaw as he shakes his head and Dean has to tilt his head down and bury his nose in it. “Then what were you shooting at?”

“You obviously were looking at something.” Sam’s hand traces down Dean’s side, palm dragging across his hipbones and back up the other side. “And you, you yelled for me. And I just…shot.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to shake his head. “You’re amazing.” He breathes in the scent of Sam, shampoo, dial soap, sweat. “It was the Wild Hunt, Sammy. Woden and his horses and his hounds screaming across the night sky. Just like it says in the stories.”

Dean’s breath gets pushed out of him as Sam leverages himself up with the hand on Dean’s chest. Only a quick jerk of his head saves him from a bruised chin. Sam’s eyes are wide as they stare into Dean’s. Dean can see the questions fighting to be asked first. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nope.”

Sam bolts up, blankets slipping to his hips, letting the cold slip between them, pebbling Dean’s skin. “You saw them?”

Dean snuggles down deeper into the bed, his head resting on Sam’s thigh. He slips his hand up under Sam’s shirt. The skin is as soft as Dean always imagined it would be. He can’t stop running his fingers across it, dipping under the waistband of Sam’s sweats in the back. “Yeah, I saw them. Heard them. They, he, it, kind of…talked…to me?” He rolls onto his side, lifting Sam’s shirt so he can put his lips on the skin over his hip bones. “More like images in my head.”

Sam groans and relaxes back against the headboard. His hand slips behind Dean’s head, cradling his skull. “What…ah,” he shivers as Dean scrapes his teeth over the bone. “Fuck..what did they say? God, Dean, I can’t believe it.” 

Dean slides his hand across Sam’s back to his other hip. He slips both hands up and under, pushing Sam’s shirt up and up and up, over Sam’s raised arms. “They wanted me to come with them, Sam.” His hands grip Sam’s shoulders and pull him back down to the bed. Sam goes willingly. Dean rolls his body over his brother’s, and the room is glowing white now. The light from the snow flooding the white walls. “There was a hunter. She got lost. And they wanted me to take her place.”

Dean is braced on his elbows over Sam, knees bracketing his hips, hands running over his biceps. Dean watches the miracle of his fingers on Sam’s skin. “It was a gift, like a reward.” He shifts up, sitting across Sam’s lap. “Hell could never catch me if I was riding with The Hunt.” He runs his fingers across the muscles of Sam’s chest, skating flat palms over his nipples, tracing the indent of his hips with his thumbs. “I almost went, Sam.” His pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the side. 

Sam sits up and slipping his arms around Dean’s back, pulls him down chest to chest. “I know, Dean. You were almost out the door.” 

Dean holds himself up on his forearms, searching Sam’s eyes, wanting to be sure, even now, with Sam wrapped around him, skin to skin, hard line of Sammy’s cock pressing against his own. Sure that Sam wants him, wants this. There’s no sound except their breathing. But Dean still feels the baying of the hounds, and for a moment he is gone, riding the wind, chasing the stag. He pushes off the suddenly-insubstantial bed.

Sam reaches up, pulls Dean’s head down and presses his mouth to Dean’s. “No one’s taking you from me. Not Lilith, not the Hunt, no one.”

Sam’s mouth tastes like cheap chocolate and cheaper alcohol. His lips are dry. Dean licks across them even as Sam opens wide, chasing Dean’s tongue, trying to get it back between his teeth, his breath hot against on Dean’s lips. His stubble burns Dean’s face, and the room is cold, the sheets stiff, the light garish, and it’s all so real that Dean could cry. He threads his fingers through Sam’s hair and pulls away, holding his head down when he tries to follow. “This is real, right, Sammy? This?” He thrusts down hard against Sam’s hips. _Please let it be real._

Sam knows what he needs, he always knows. He grabs Dean, sliding his long fingers under the waistband and digging his nails deep into the soft flesh at the smooth curve of Dean’s ass. “Yeah, it’s real. Feel that?” He bites at Dean’s neck. “Feel that?” 

The pain brings Dean all the way back into his body, and he moans, deep and long, at the feel of hard muscle and silken flesh beneath him. "Fuck, yeah.”

He rolls off his brother, a quick kiss to his lips as Sam whimpers. “Naked. Now.” Dean rips off his sweat pants, Sam right behind him. They both groan as Dean rolls back over on top of Sam. Sam’s thighs spread open, welcoming Dean. It’s almost too much too fast, a cascade of touch and taste and sounds. Their cocks slide together and Dean’s balls rub up against Sam. He can feel the soft hairs on Sam’s calves as he rubs them against Dean’s. Dean is torn between kissing Sam over and over, feeling those soft pink lips under his, and keeping Sam’s mouth free to spill the hottest, lovingest, filthiest words Dean has ever heard.

Dean licks across Sam’s lips again, nipping and biting until Sam lets him in. Sam’s hands are everywhere. Curved up under Dean’s shoulder blades and pulling him down as Sam slides up and Dean is going to have bruises on his shoulders. Sam rocks side to side, settling Dean deeper into the cradle of his hips and his balls drag soft and gently furry against Dean’s and he pulls off Sam’s mouth and buries his head in Sam’s neck. “Jesus. Fuck, God. Stop, slow down. I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.”

Dean can feel Sam shuddering underneath him with the strain of keeping still. It’s so hard to pull back from the brink. Sam won’t stop touching him, touching Dean’s skin, hand gripping tightly, dragging at the skin as they slide down to his ass and back up again. He keeps talking, won't shut up and it might be worse than the feel of his hands.

“Oh, God, Dean. I just.” Sam’s hands span the width of Dean’s body and he’s kneading at his cheeks, pulling the skin between them tight until all Dean can think about is Sam fucking him. Sounds like Sammy’s on the same page. “Shit. Your ass. So fucking gorgeous. Always. Always wanted to. But I can’t. Couldn’t.” His fingers slip into the crack and Dean gasps, thrusting his hips down. Sam is a wave under him, a sinuous role from his shoulders to his thighs. “Dean, gotta fuck you. Please. Let me fuck you. Been dreaming about it.”

It’s too much. Sam under him, begging for everything Dean’s tried for years not to want. Dean’s not sure if this is real or not anymore, but it doesn’t matter. For tonight, he is going to have this comfort. Right now, Sam is talking way too much, and way too coherently. Dean plunders his mouth again, sliding a hand down Sam’s arm when he feels Sam’s death grip on his ass loosen just a bit. “Been dreaming about this?” He grabs Sam’s hand, tangles their fingers together and drags it over Sam’s head into the pillow. 

“Yeah. Shit.”

“For how long? How long, little brother?” He pulls Sam’s other hand up.

“Long time,” Sam pants. They’re eye to eye now, no place to hide. “Forever.” Sam’s eyes are so black with a tiny ring of gold around them and his face is so open. Dean feels trapped. He wants to run from this, though it’s way, way too late, but Sam knows, Sam always knows, and his fingers tighten around Dean’s, holding Dean, grounding him. He raises his head up and captures Dean’s mouth with his. He’s fascinated with Dean’s lips, licking and nipping at them, sucking them one and time into his mouth while Dean tries to get more. No matter what he does, Dean can’t seem to get control of this situation. He’s the older brother, damn it. Shifting his weight, he grabs both of Sam’s wrists with one hand. It’s all for show. They both know Sam could break the hold in a half a second. Slipping his free hand under Sam’s neck, he lifts up, forcing Sam's head back. He goes for broke, using every trick he’s ever used to drive someone crazy. He’d been using his mouth to get him out of trouble for almost as long as it's been getting him into it.

He fucks into Sam’s mouth until Sam has lost the ability to kiss, let alone talk. His mouth hangs open as he pants into Dean’s. “That’s better.” Dean pushes both hands deeper into the pillow. “Keep them there. And if you’re good, next time you can fuck me.” Sam’s eyes are wide and he nods like Dean just promised him ice cream when he finished his homework. It’s seven kinds of fucked up how hot that is. “You like that?” he ask. 

Sam nods, eyes boring into Dean’s as Dean slowly moves down Sam’s body, licking, kissing and nipping every inch he can reach as he goes. His tongue swirls around a nipple, flicks against it. “Yeah,” Sam exhales. Dean spends a little more time there, flicking back and forth. “Shit. C’mon, Dean.” Dean turns his head licks his fingers, then twists and pulls the other nipple at the same time. Sam arches off the bed. “Yeah, fuck” He twists underneath Dean, pushing into him, then pulling away like he can’t decide if he wants more or less. “Dean. Please.” 

Dean pulls off with a long lick. “Please what?” He misses the answer as he tilts his pelvis back and forth, dragging his rock-hard cock across the soft hairs of Sam’s thighs. It feels incredible. He does it a few more time, biting Sam’s chest almost absentmindedly until Sam’s big hand lands heavy on his head and yanks it up. 

“Fucking tease. Just fuck me already. Blow me. Something.” He licks his lip as he gently tugs down Dean’s lower lip. “Oh yeah. Your mouth.” Dean licks around Sam’s fingers, they still taste vaguely like chocolate and liquor. “You really need to blow me.” Dean bites down and Sam yelps, pulling his hand out. “Hey!”

Dean pulls up onto his knees, grabs Sam’s hands again. “And you need to keep. Your. Hands. Down.” Dean slams them up back over Sam’s head. He shifts up until he is straddling Sam’s stomach. Sam’s dick behind him, rock hard, leaking and touching nothing but air. Dean leans way down to whisper into Sam’s ear. He licks around the shell of it until Sam is squirming. “If you keep your hands here. I promise I’ll suck you until your brains leak out your ears.” 

Sam whimpers, hips working up, fucking the air. “God, please, Dean. Fuck. Fucking do it.”

“Have you imagined it, baby boy?”

“Oh, god. Oh, god." A gorgeous pink blush starts in Sam's cheeks, cascades down his chest. "Yeah. Yes. I did. I do. You have the most fucking beautiful mouth.”

Dean rewards him by bending down and kissing the air out of him, fucking into him with his tongue hard and fast, until Sam is a whimpering mess. Sam gasps as Dean pushes up and slides off the bed to stand next to it. Butt naked, cock hard, and smirking, Dean walks to the end of the bed, hand trailing down Sam’s body as he does. Leaning forward, he grabs Sam behind the knees. “Ready, little brother?” With one strong tug, he pulls Sam’s body down the bed until his ass is almost hanging off the bed. 

“Dean! What the fuck?” Sam squawks.

He shoves Sam’s thighs up and out until Sam’s feet are flat on the bed and Sam is spread out in front of him. As Dean drops to his knees, he trails his hands down the inside of Sam’s thighs. Sam is panting like he’s run ten miles and he pushes himself up on his elbows to watch. 

Keeping his eyes locked with Sam’s, Dean opens his mouth, slowly leans forward, flattening his tongue against the base of Sam’s dick. The breath shudders out of Sam’s lungs, and Dean doesn’t feel him inhale. Dean drags his mouth up all those inches of Sam. “Breath,” he blows against the dripping wet skin at the top. Sammy sucks in a huge breath and breaks.

"Fuck you. Christ. Oh, god damn it, Dean. Blow me already. Please. Your mouth, please.” He drops back down to the bed, hands grasping, reaching out for Dean’s head, shoulders, anything.

“You just had to ask, Sammy.” And Dean leans in, one hand on Sam’s dick, the other braced against Sam’s strong thigh, opens his mouth and takes Sam in as deep as he can. It should be weird, should feel wrong, but it just feels amazing. Sam is hot and heavy and silken against his tongue. And alive. Sam’s alive and Dean is alive and together they are heat and light against the cold and dark.

Sam’s not thrusting into Dean so much as writhing against the bed, hands clenched in the sheets. Sam’s feet slip off the bed and wrap around Dean’s waist. Dean rests his hands on the protrusions of Sam’s hips, thumbs caressing the grooves, just riding the wave of Sam. Sam is cursing low and constant. “Shit. You. God. Ah, ah. Just fuck me. God fuck me. Dean.” His mouth is loose, lips sliding over Sam, tongue caressing, and he feels like he could do this for hours, but he can also feel the orgasm tightening low in his body. He’s going to come from Sam’s cock in his mouth and his voice in his ear.

The world falls away until it’s just the pleasure throbbing in his spine, the liquid slide down his cock, and the taste of Sam, salty and addicting. He barely registers Sammy muscles bunching as he pulls himself up. He sits up, legs slipping down to the ground. Dean keeps his mouth sealed around Sam, sitting back on his heels, arms tight around his waist. Sam’s hands tighten in Dean’s short hair and he thrusts hard into Dean. Slamming into the back of Dean’s throat, once, twice. And he feels the beginning of orgasm throbbing in Sam’s cock and sliding across his tongue. Sam yanks Dean’s mouth off of him, and looks down, panting, eyes wide. “Dean. Can’t.” Dean licks the taste of Sam off his lips as he looks up through his lashes at Sam and Dean is mesmerized by the giant heaving, sweaty, muscular sex god his brother has turned into. He knows his expression must matches Sam’s. They’re both so close but it feel so fucking good. He needs to come and he wants to make it last. With the hand still gripped around the base of Sam’s cock, he pulls it back towards his mouth. Just touching his lips to it, eyes locked on Sam’s, he begs. “Do it. God, Sam. Come for me, baby.”

Sam’s eyes roll up and his muscles tighten impossibly under Dean’s hands. His cock jerks and twitches as he comes, pulse after pulse shooting out, shooting up his body, over Dean’s hand, into his mouth and over his lips as he licks and sucks Sam through it. Sam moans and panting breaths wash over Dean and he feels Sam slapping weakly at his head and shoulders.

“Oh my fucking, god.” Sam falls backwards on the bed. “Oh my god.”

Dean is rock hard and throbbing as he bites as the insides of Sam’s thighs and licks behind his knees. He reaches behind him and grabs the duffle with one hand. Digging through it blindly, he pulls out the bottle of lube. Without moving his mouth from Sam’s skin, something that sounds impossible anyway, he slicks up his fingers and taking all the fuck me’s Sam had moaned as permission, slides his fingers between Sam’s ass checks.

Sam whimpers and pulls his feet back up on the end of the bed. Dean stops trailing his fingers up and down, leaving just the tip of one pressed against Sam’s entrance. He pushes up on his knees to look at Sam. “Is this okay, Sam? Is it good? You want me to stop?”

Sam lifts his head and huffs a small laugh. “Stop, and I’ll kill you.”

Dean pushes in. Slowly, but steadily, Sam’s orgasm-wrecked muscles opening easily around him. They both groan and the heat and clench is going to make Dean come. Dean slides in and out of his brother, mesmerized by the silken feel, until Sam cuffs him weakly on the side of the head. “More. More. God, Dean.”

Dean slides in another finger, pumping harder and more frantically, until even Sam’s breath is speeding up again. He crooks his fingers up, pushing, and Sam jolts with a loud moan. “Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck me already.”

Dean pulls out, wiping his hand on the bedspread. “Anything for you, baby.” His laugh comes out rockier than he’d intended it to. He’s going to fuck his baby brother at last. Ten years of repression comes down to this and it’s going to be over in about five seconds. He hisses at the feel of the cold lube on his hot skin. He wants to slide Sam up the bed, wants to cover him, feel his mouth, feel his heart beat though his skin, but his hands are shaking so much and the whole night has been too much, so he just lays over Sam as best as he can. His arms tremble and he feels Sam’s arms slip under his, pulling him up and flipping them over in one smooth move.

Sam straddles Dean, guides him in. They both moan as Sam slides down, and they rock together gently to the rhythm of their breathing. Dean’s cock throbs inside Sam and the pounding of blood in his ears drowns out the last of the wind and the hounds. Sam slides up and down relentlessly until Dean is trembling helplessly. “Sam,” he whispers. “Sammy. I almost went.”

Sam doesn’t stop the sweet rolling of his hips as he bends down over Dean’s body, resting his hands on either side of Dean’s head and Dean would willingly go to hell for this a thousand times. He kisses Dean deep and long, his tongue sliding around Dean’s mouth. Dean slides his arms around Sam’s waist and pulls him in tightly. Sam bites his way to Dean’s neck, licks a stripe up it. “Never gonna let you go, Dean. Love you. You’re mine. Now fuck me like you want to stay with me.”

Dean’s groan punches out of him and he bends his knees, braces his feet on the bed, hands on Sam’s shoulders, and slams into Sam’s body. “Love you, Sammy. Love you,” he almost sobs. One, two thrusts and he’s arching off the bed, lifting Sam with his hips, and shooting deep into his brother. He feels Sam’s legs tighten around him, feels Sam’s fisting his own cock before coming again all over Dean’s chest, but it’s a distant thought. Sam’s whispered “I’m gonna save you,” follows him into sleep.

 

Later, much later, after waking up and hot shower kisses and soapy handjobs and watching Sam fall asleep curled next to him, Dean shoves his feet into boots, slips on his jacket and quietly pulls the door open. He steps over into the snow piled a foot and more against the door. The world is white and grey, the sky still not finishes snowing. The Impala gleams blackly through its blanket of white. All around it Dean can see the faintest imprints of huge paws and wide hooves. He digs through his jacket pocket for a cigarette. As the flame from the lighter fades into a red glow, he thinks about hell and Sam and eternity and thinks _maybe_. Maybe if they ask again at the right time. Staring at nothing, he finishes his smoke, tossing the butt into the cold wet snow, then turns back to the room, to Sam. One hundred and twenty five, he thinks, shutting the door silently behind him.


End file.
